Chapter 20 Kazimir
KAZIMIR
She's playing me.
I know she's playing me, and I don't fucking care.
It’s been two days since our fight, since she slapped me and walked away, and something shifted. Something changed. She's softer now. Not much—not enough that anyone else would notice—but I notice everything about her.
I see the way she looks at me a little longer, the way she lingers in rooms and in doorways instead of hiding away in the guest bedroom whenever I’m home.
She eats everything I put in front of her and thanks me for it.
She actually offered me coffee this morning as she was making her cup of decaf.
She’s acting like we’re playing house, as if I wouldn’t notice the change and be suspicious of it.
But Christ, I want to believe it anyway.
I’m making breakfast—toast and eggs for me, poached eggs and a biscuit for her—and she’s sitting at the bar counter watching me, wearing a long button-down shirt over a pair of leggings.
Her hair is piled up on top of her head, leaving the long line of her neck and the spread of her collarbones bare, and the shirt is oversized enough that I could pretend that it’s mine.
I know exactly what she’s doing. She looks warm and soft and like she belongs to me, and it’s fucking working, because how much I want her feels like a physical ache in my chest.
I can feel her eyes on me. Studying me. Trying to figure out what angle to take, what move to make next. I should call her on it. Should tell her I know exactly what she's doing.
But I don't. Because even if it's manipulation, even if it's all an act—I'll take it. I'll take whatever she's willing to give me, even if it's fake.
It's fucked up. I know it's fucked up.
I don't care.
"Kazimir?"
I look up. She's leaning forward slightly, her elbows on the counter, and the neckline of the shirt dips just enough that I can see the hollow of her throat and the space between the tops of her breasts.
My cock throbs, stiffening, and grease pops onto my wrist. “Shit!” I yelp, stepping back, and glance at her as I turn the faucet on cold to run my wrist under it. “Yeah?”
Her lips twitch. “Nothing. Are you okay?”
As if she really cares. I push the thought away and nod. “Yeah. Just a little burn. Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I should have thanked you,” she says softly, the words coming out of nowhere as I let the water spill over my wrist. It’s ice cold, but it does nothing to soothe the heat pounding through my veins.
“I’ve been cruel, and you’ve just been trying to take care of me. You could have just... left me alone."
She’s laying it on a little too thick, and I know she’s testing me, seeing if I’ll call her out on it. But fuck, hearing the words feels so good, even if they’re a lie. I never knew how beautiful lies could sound until they were coming from her lips.
"No." The word comes out rougher than I intended. "I couldn't."
She holds my gaze for a long moment, and I wonder what she sees. If she can see how completely she's destroyed me. How I'd burn the whole fucking world down if it meant keeping her safe.
I turn back to the stove before I do something stupid. Before I cross the kitchen and kiss her the way I've been dying to kiss her since I nearly did the last time, and she slapped me.
I need to stay in control. But she's making it impossible.
The eggs are done. I plate them, add toast and a biscuit to our plates, and pour her a glass of orange juice, then take them to the small table next to the kitchen.
She follows, and I sit down across from her.
Take a piece of toast. Watch as she takes a bite of eggs, her eyes closing briefly in appreciation. "Good?" I ask.
"Really good." She takes another bite. “You’re a surprisingly good cook.”
I chuckle. “Well, as a confirmed bachelor, it’s an important skill to have if I don’t want to blow all my money on takeout.”
She smirks. “What do you blow your money on? Hookers and drugs?”
I snort at that. “Hardly. I’m a saver. I didn’t grow up rich, and I’d rather never have to worry about money again. I’d rather live well within my means and not want for anything.”
Her gaze searches mine. “So there’s nothing you want for?”
It’s a gambit, and it takes everything in me not to pick it up. “Not that I can buy,” I say finally, and fork up another bite of eggs.
We eat in silence, and the intimacy of it is almost unbearable. This is what I wanted. This quiet, easy thing between us. This sense of normalcy.
Even if it's built on lies. Even if she's only doing it to lower my guard. I don't care. I just don't fucking care. I want more of it.
She's reaching for her juice when there's a knock at the door. We both freeze.
"Expecting someone?" she asks, and there's an edge of fear in her voice that makes my protective instincts roar to life.
"No." I shove my chair back, pushing to my feet. "Go to the bedroom. Now."
"Kazimir—"
"Now, Svetlana."
There’s another knock, harder this time. More insistent.
She gets up instantly, her face pale, and I wait until she's disappeared down the hallway before I move to the door. I check the peephole first, and my blood turns to ice.
Ilya is standing outside.
Fuck. Fuck.
I take a breath, force my expression into something neutral, and open the door.
"Ilya." I keep my body in the doorway, blocking his view of the apartment. "What are you doing here?"
He looks on edge, stressed. "We need to talk. Can I come in?"
I try not to flinch. "Now's not a good time."
His eyes narrow. "Make it a good time. This is important."
Every instinct I have is screaming at me to shut the door in his face.
To tell him to fuck off and come back later.
But that would set off so many alarm bells that he’d know immediately that something is very, very wrong.
I’ve never spoken to Ilya like that, never been so insubordinate.
I’ve ribbed him a little at times, given him a direct answer or advice on others, but I’ve never told my very lethal boss to fuck off, or shoved a door shut in his face.
Now isn’t the time to start.
I step back, seeing the table set for two, a woman’s cardigan thrown over the arm of the couch. My mind is racing to come up with an explanation. I don’t think Ilya will barge into my bedroom, but if he did…
“Holy shit.” The smallest smirk tilts Ilya’s lips. “Did you let a woman spend the night, Kaz?”
Of course. There’s the answer. I force myself to smile, looking sheepish, shrugging as if it’s no big deal. “She was hot, what can I say? I didn’t get much sleep last night.”
“But making breakfast?” Ilya chuckles. “And she left something here?” He strides toward the couch, fingering the sleeve of the cardigan, and I hope to God he doesn’t remember what Svetlana’s skin smells like, that unique scent that’s only hers.
And then, with that thought, a possessive fury roars through me that I hold back with a force of effort that feels almost painful. The reminder that she was once Ilya’s, that he’s buried his nose in her hair, ran his hands over her body, had his cock inside of her…
My jaw clenches. I feel like an animal, wanting to throw another male out of his territory. No woman has ever made me feel like this before, and I need to get myself under fucking control, or I’m dead.
“I can be a gentleman.” I force a chuckle. “After the thing she did with her mouth last night, I thought it was only right to feed it before she left for work.”
Ilya snorts. “Spoken exactly like a gentleman.” He drops the cardigan, and I feel a flicker of relief mingle with the tornado of anger still swirling inside of me.
“What’s so urgent?” My voice is tight. “It must not be that bad if you’re casting around theories about my love life.”
Ilya frowns. “I tried calling you, and you didn’t answer. We have an issue down at the docks. Shipment theft. I have some men keeping the situation under control for now, but you’re my enforcer, Kazimir. I need you to find out what’s been going on.”
Even as I nod and reach for my jacket, I feel a wave of exhaustion washing over me.
I’m not a man who enjoys inflicting pain by nature.
Seeing what happened to Svetlana and having her in my life has only dulled that edge.
And now, the thought of having to leave her here so that I can go and pry answers out of men stupid enough to cross the most powerful man in Boston makes me feel so tired that for a moment, I nearly sink into the chair behind me.
“Alright then, I’ll be right behind you.” I shrug on my leather jacket, and Ilya narrows his eyes at me briefly, but nods.
“Don’t be more than five minutes behind,” he says sharply, and then strides out.
I already have my phone out before the door is fully closed, texting Artem to tell him to come and watch the apartment, and to get there within five minutes if he can.
I can’t leave Svetlana alone; her sweet behavior is a farce, I’m fairly sure of it, and if I leave the apartment unguarded she’ll take advantage of it.
I go to the guest room and open it without knocking. Svetlana is nowhere to be seen, and I step into the room, clearing my throat.
“He’s gone for now.”
She steps out of the closet. Smart girl, I think, and then I see the fear on her face. It’s washed out completely pale, her eyes round and standing out in the hollows, and her fingers are knotted together in front of her.
I want to go to her, pull her into my arms and comfort her, but now isn’t the time for it. “I have to go,” I tell her quickly. “Artem is on his way. Don’t try to leave. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
"How long?"
That alone is enough to tell me that she’s frightened. "I don't know. A few hours, maybe.”
"What if he comes back? What if he—"
"He won't." I reach out and cup her face in my hand before I can stop myself. Her skin is soft and warm, and to my surprise, she doesn't pull away. "I won't let anything happen to you. I swear."